Healing Wounds
by Sanetwin
Summary: The Dyad institute secretly advised Sarah to rent Helena an apartment for safekeeping. For three months, Sarah settled into a routine and forgot all about the experiment, the dangers, and Helena. However, with some prodding from her daughter, she discovered the effect of those three months on Helena.


A/N: The timeline jumps around. Pay attention to new paragraph because if it isn't dialogue then it's a new train of thought/event. Basically, this was designed to be overly confusing if you skim *evil laughter*

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The last time I saw Sarah Manning, she was driving the old Cadillac along the highway parallel to our apartment.

For three months, the world existed only within the space of our apartment, and all was calm and peaceful. Sarah had begun to settle and relax. She found a routine—one that she loved. I would wake up to the imprint of her body beside me and the smell of coffee wafting from the kitchen. She was always gone by the time I left the bed, but I could see her presence scattered across the room: dishes piled in the sink; the morning paper riddled with pen marks and circled job advertisements. We were happy. I knew that she was trying to be solid for Kira, but it ran deeper than that—she had found her home. Every morning she would drive Kira to school and every afternoon she would wait outside the school steps. She always took her time walking Kira from school. She'd take Kira to the park, or buy her ice cream, or take "the wrong turn" and walk along the marine. They always ended up walking home at dusk, hand-in-hand, just miniature silhouettes in a sky split open with red and orange. Kira would be hanging from Sarah's arm like a monkey, swinging and laughing as Sarah struggled to keep her airborne—she's growing every day, shooting up like a stalk of bamboo.

From there, Mrs. S would take charge. She always waited at the apartment with her arms crossed and her lips pursed, as if she just tasted something sour. Her face would always lighten whenever Kira came into view—it was as if she couldn't believe Sarah would keep Kira out late _again_. She would take Kira to the car and take her home, to her real home, and nobody could argue about it. Sarah could barely bring Kira to the welcome mat before the switch-off. It made sense, knowing the circumstances, and Sarah hardly fought it. She could only hold her daughter's hand as long as possible, and squeeze her fingers as they flew from her grip. It was easier knowing that she would be taking Kira to and from school again the next day.

This was the order of the world and it was cementing in place, so close to fact that I forgot how vulnerable to change it was. We were happy, but we weren't the only ones existing in this orchestrated world. S_he _was upset about it, and Kira didn't like it either, the way things were. I could see her look at the window on the third floor, waving to the shadow lurking behind the curtains. _Helena_.

Helena came crashing into Sarah's life like a tornado—a living, breathing natural disaster. I learned more about her every day, it seemed. Her wild, blonde hair grows on her skull like ivy, stretching in every direction and interwoven tightly in the coiled roots is her demented brain. Porous and wrought with landfill, her mind is as loose as soft soil. Her hands are large with nails bitten down to the pink flesh and capable of the locked grip of a pit-bull. With enough love in her heart to uproot a city, she grasped Sarah with all her might and refused to let go. Of course, I had only seen Helena once before—the day we got her the room—but the description seemed to fit. Helena was a tender subject for Sarah and the mere mention of her made Sarah flighty and suspicious. She seemed unwilling to accept Helena, for their past was too violent and painful to look at, and yet, she was unable to push her away. She was on the precipice of caring but she hesitated, and it was important that she remain ambivalent. Under my instruction (and your construction), Sarah used the safety fund to rent an apartment for Helena a floor below our own. That way, Helena lived out of sight but within the realm of Sarah's grasp.

The day we got the room, Helena sat on the couch with her hands trapped between her legs. She sucked her lower lip and watched as Sarah talked to the landlord. I stayed close to Sarah, pacing around her protectively, and kept my narrowed eyes on Helena. My first impression was of incompetence; I had a hard time believing Sarah's stories of Helena's secret intelligence, strength, and overpowering intensity—she looked more like a child.

"If you don't stop moving," whispered Sarah, "I'm gonna hit you."

I glanced back at Sarah and found her gaze still glued to the landlord, who had lost himself in a ramble about the condition of the room, and she stood with her hands in her pockets, legs apart. (I swear, sometimes she's more masculine than me). When I looked back at Helena, I found her eyes on me; her gaze flickered up and down and then she met my stare unblinkingly. Her lips, chapped and unsuitably large, stretched into an eerie, close-lipped smile. Her nervousness seeped from her and was replaced by a dark confidence. Something about the sudden stillness and that strange smile told me that, if the time ever came, she knew exactly how to kill me. I never doubted Sarah again. I remained distant as Sarah approached Helena. She told Helena that she had thought of everything: food, bed sheets, dishes, laundry soap, dishwashing soap, and etcetera. Her hand swayed to Helena but retracted quickly to her side. "Stay out of trouble, ya hear me? I don't wanna see you on the Discovery channel or something," she said, not unkindly, and I could sense genuine concern underlying the awkwardness. All the sentiments she could not put into words clung to the softness in her voice but she spoke a language of nonverbal cues that Helena couldn't understand. She nodded but her shoulders hunched as if she were being scolded.

Sarah nodded quickly and looked around the room. It looked as if she wanted to say something more but nothing else was said. We left a minute later.

For a while I thought that you were wrong, that the apartment wouldn't work, and that Sarah would flee with Kira wrapped in her arms and everyone else would follow her out of our grasp. I stayed awake and watched Sarah cringe at the sounds of her sister pacing the room below. Hours would crawl by and we could still hear the creaking sounds of her boots connecting with the old floorboards, but that was it. We never found Helena in our room, she didn't roam the streets, and she didn't make a fuss with her neighbors. As it turns out, Helena rarely left her room at all. Her presence was reduced to the monthly rent, given to us by the landlord upon request, and we paid them like an old magazine subscription we were too lazy to cancel. There was only one repercussion: Mrs. S refused to let Kira in the apartment. She shook her head, and spoke with the harsh tongue of an aged mother. "_I don't want her walking past a murdering psychopath on her way up to visiting you._" All of which Sarah accepted almost unquestionably.

The hurry to settle down without qualm or dispute surprised me for "yielding" was an attribute I had never associated with her before. But I guess you're the expert, you must know their weaknesses by heart now. I didn't know who Sarah was before she took Beth's life and so her tendency to elude responsibility had been concealed from my view. The woman who ran away in the night, hiding from her daughter, for 10 months must have been terrified of the love she felt, or perhaps she felt threatened by it. The same bond of blood ran through them, deep and unconditional, but it was the blood on Helena's hands that spurned the stranger to reappear in Sarah. You must have known, somehow, that Sarah wanted the threat cut from her but not destroyed. It would have been perfect, but you forgot two variables; the first being the one person who has experienced Sarah's weakness first-hand, Kira. She had a plan, a map of events that she had been drawing ever since we bought the apartment, and she has been executing it slowly, meticulously.

The first change came with the turn of seasons. We all sat by our cars and made small talk while waiting for Sarah to bring Kira home. I saw their silhouettes distantly bobbing along the horizon; the sun lay on the floor with long, red waves trailing behind it like the path of a wounded soldier. As they drew closer, Mrs. S sighed and crossed her arms over her chest and I remember blaming the chill. But as the pair stood opposing Mrs. S, clutching each other tightly, anticipating the loss, she made no move to separate them. Instead, she stroked Kira's wind-blown hair, smiled, and then walked back to her car, bent forward against the wind. I don't know what influence Kira had on Mrs. S, but she never demanded for Kira again. Sarah led Kira up the steps to her apartment, her hand held back for Kira's soft grip. Sarah was quiet but her excitement could be seen in the careful patience she showed with Kira. When they reached the third floor, Kira trailed behind with exaggerated slowness, sent longing glances to the door but supplied no explanation. Sarah observed all this with silent concern but was forgotten the moment they reached the fourth floor. That first night was serenity for Sarah; they made bowls of ice cream dipped in peanut butter and chocolate sauce and watched Disney classics. At 9:30pm, Kira found her place on the bed, swaddled by blankets and her mother's arms, between me and Sarah. I lay awake, shivering and bare from my usual sources of warmth, listening to the dark sounds of Helena creeping below.

The following two weeks, Kira stayed with her mother. On the Saturday of the second week, they stayed in bed until noon. Kira lay in her mother's lap and watched as she drew the coffee mug to her lips, inhaled slowly, and swallowed deeply. They asked each other questions ranging from favorite food to greatest fears. I was surprised by how open Sarah was with each question. None of her answers seemed edited and I heard things she never even hinted to me. In the gentle lull of conversation, Kira nuzzled her nose in the crook of Sarah's neck and splayed her hand over the warm skin of her chest, feeling the thrum of her heartbeat, and asked why Helena didn't live with us. Sarah squeezed Kira tight, kissed the top of her head and rested her cheek.

"I know you miss her, Monkey, but this is for the best."

Kira remained silent, but her disapproval could be felt radiating from the bedroom to where I stood cooking in the kitchen. The yellow yolk of the eggs sizzling in the pan burst and oozed together, hissing in pain, destroyed by the heavy tension of the room.

The third time, she grew bold. They stood in front of the third floor when she pulled Sarah's sleeve and looked up at her with wide, pleading eyes.

"Mum, can we please see her?" She asked.

"I promised Mrs. S that we would be safe," Sarah replied in a light voice, and stumbled straight into Kira's trap. She puckered her lips, tilted her chin to the floor, and looked up at her mother. I have to admit that even I, a simple bystander, felt the affect. Sarah looked as if she could collapse. Kira put both her hands on Sarah's face, fingers splaying over her cheeks.

"Of course we'll be safe. _We can't just abandon her_" She said. Kira strung her words like arrows in a bow and with bitter context she let them fly, whirring with silent power, to pierce her mother.

Kira is eight years old, a child, with wide brown eyes and a round face. She looks like any normal child with a quick smile, bubbling with sweetness, and a simple philosophy towards life. It was hard to grant her real problems, emotions, and pain. Her wide-set eyes, the color of damp leaves in autumn, suggest the fragility of a fawn. But as I watched her clutch Sarah's face, I saw the power she exercises over Sarah; she developed strength in the time that Sarah was gone, lost in the bitter cold 10-month long winter. She clutched Sarah's hardened heart in her hands and she kneaded it gently, working her palms into the sinewy muscle, radiating warmth, until it was soft and malleable. Sarah broke their gaze and looked back at me. I could see her resolve breaking.

From the outside, Helena's door looked identical to any other. It was white and pristine with a silver doorknob. In the center of the door, a slick slab of bronze lay with white numbers pressed into it: _305_. No blood stains or rank smells indicated the monstrous presence lurking behind the white door. Sarah fumbled with her wallet and pulled out a magnetized card from behind three other cards.

Sarah let the door swing open entirely before entering the room. The plan was that Sarah would retrieve Helena while Kira and I waited for her outside. We were trying to spare Kira of anything that would scar her image of Helena. Belted to my hip, hiding beneath my denim jeans, was my semi-automatic pistol issued to me by Olivier. We stared into the room silently. Sarah had bought the cheapest apartment possible which meant that all the rooms were conjoined. The couch was pulled out as a bed. A couple paces would lead to the counter in which miscellaneous kitchen appliances lay, looking out of place. The bathroom was indicated by the rectangular slit on the other side of the room, there was no door. All the lights were off but I could see, without surprise, the filthy condition the room was in. Ripped paper glided over the floor, propelled by the faint breeze of the opening door. Dirty silverware glinted with silver light beside the couch-bed, sending help signals. Hesitantly, Sarah entered the room and disappeared under the dark veil. But she would not find Helena in the dark room. Helena found us.

It must have been the light that brought her out. Or perhaps she was intrigued by the silhouetted figures standing in the open doorway, for she crept to us like a mosquito to an electric lantern. Kira saw her first and she approached the door. A moment later, I saw the cloud of yellow hair. Helena stepped out from the shadows wearing only dark pants and a bra. (Sarah's body hung on her frame like a baggy shirt). She looked odd standing in front of us, so out of place in the pristine hall. The description which had captured my mind no longer fit this thing creeping from the shadows. The skin on her face was sallow and bloodless and sagged into black crescent moons under her eyes. This woman was no force of nature; this electric phoenix, goddess of chaos, clutched a straight-blade razor in her skeletal fingers while fresh gashes gleamed on her shoulders like the fat, red fingers of a demon.

"Helena," Kira murmured. One hand rose in the heavy air and touched the trembling hands of this decrepit corpse. Helena looked at the child vaguely, uncomprehending, as Kira took her hand and tried to pry the razor from her. It dawned on her a moment later as Kira began stroking her wrist. The razor fell to the floor as Helena clutched Kira's hand.

"Angel. Angel. Angel," she whispered, and bestowed a kiss to the soft hand with each word.

My hand grasped the gun on my hip, but I hesitated. The grand display of affection embarrassed me, and I felt as though I should look away rather than react.

"_I'm so sorry_," Kira murmured in a voice saturated with aching pity.

"_No_!"

Sarah stood in the doorframe; half her face was cast shadow so that only her lips, twisted severely with terror, could be seen. Helena turned to her sister. Her shoulders broadened and she stood with the attentive stance a dog holds for his master. The violence her hands bore became more obvious as she faced me. An insane web of red grooves lay in her back, spun meticulously into shape. These hideous slashes had once been described to me as wings –a glorified outline—but they didn't look like wings. She painted her scars on her back like a child who couldn't make up her mind and ended up with three different paintings. The result was the grotesque image of wriggling red worms interwoven in the flesh.

"Sarah, you came back," she breathed and reached for her with both hands, which Sarah batted away like insistent flies. She could not, or refused, to see the deterioration in Helena. All she could see was a psychotic murderer kneeling beside her daughter. The razor gleamed in the artificial light, still red with fresh blood.

"You do not touch my daughter!" Sarah bellowed, grabbing a handful of Helena's hair at the back of her head, like grasping a dog's scruff, and pulled her close. "Don't even look at her," she snarled, and shook the body in her hands, yanking out tufts of blonde curls. Helena fidgeted catatonically and pathetically accepted the abuse.

"_Stop_ it! Look at her, just _look_. Can't you see she's dying?" Kira yelled. Sarah's head snapped to her daughter and then to Helena's frayed, pale hair which matched the sickly yellow complexion of her skin. It was not Helena she held but a scarecrow whose black holes could only impersonate the livelihood of eyes.

Helena was on the floor the moment Sarah's grip loosened. Her knees buckled and she collapsed from loss of balance. Her weight, so unsubstantial, made a soft thump as she collapsed. Sarah stood over Helena with her hands balled into fists and her chest heaving. Surprise dominated her expression and then, like sand in an hourglass, regret filled in every crevice. "She _needs_ your help," Kira said and something in her voice sprung her mother into action. Glancing at her daughter, she pulled at Helena again and half-carried her inside the apartment where I could no longer see her. I moved to follow her, but found Kira standing in front of me. Her lips were pursed and her knowing eyes bore into me, burning with distrust. "Not you," she said.

You didn't consider Helena or the impact she would have on Sarah, or herself, after all that time. As it turns out, Helena isn't suited for the civilized life although she is a perfectly functional animal. From the flayed pelt skins I found later, I know that she can hunt very well; she scoured the ground of her apartment with impeccable skill and found baby mice nestled in straw beneath the floorboards. But the fast-paced world of adulthood was too much for her. She described two detailed moments in a hoarse voice riddled by disuse and a mangled tongue. I listened from the wall opposing the door and could see Sarah's half-lit face as she listened; she tried to keep Kira away, to spare her I suppose, but she ended up curled against Helena's chest.

The first story was the only time she left her apartment. She went to the grocery store with some crumpled dollar bills stuffed in the front pockets of her green jacket. She took her time in a culture with a stopwatch; she looked at the different brands of sweet treats, ambled through the center of the aisle, and stopped often to examine the design of the tile floor. A middle-aged woman clutched her kids' hands and walked quickly by, avoiding eye contact, when Helena opened a party size bag of tootsie rolls and started eating them. She quickly discovered that she was out of place in the fast-paced world of the supermarket. The people behind her made clicking sounds and swerved their grocery carts around her like cars on a freeway; they threw angry glares and snide "_tsk_" sounds at her as they passed. She could sense that she was doing something wrong so she grabbed a can of sweet corn and a box of Twinkies and made her way to the cashier. The man who served her had a thick brown mustache clinging to his upper lip and she described to him as the corpse of a furry caterpillar. Turning red in the face, he cleared his throat with a deep _harrumph_ and mumbled a price under his breath. The numbers jumbled in her mind without meaning and she looked down at the bills scrunched in her hands. He looked at her with a raised brow. When he spoke, his mustache crawled and she felt tempted to touch it. She never said whether she acted on that impulse or not, only that she left without food and never came back.

It was the second story that pushed Sarah's already swaying thoughts over the edge and spread shame across her face with nauseating speed. Helena tried to explain why she slipped back into self-harm in the only way she could understand, which was to justify it. Tears could be heard in her voice as she tried to explain God's anger and the terrible weight of sin on her shoulders. She said that Tomas visited her in her dreams and told her that she was beyond saving—that she needed to do something to slow the process of damnation—and she did as he asked because her dreams were never wrong. The majority of the story fell under my capacity of hearing, but one line sticks with me today, she had murmured it with decreasing coherency. "_Let it out. I needed to let it out. Sin can only escape with blood, you see. I rip the flesh and let it out. But it won't go away. It won't go away_."

The morning that she left was dismal, cold, and overcast. It was the crack of dawn, and the sun wouldn't rise for another hour. Sarah had been absent, irritable and detached since seeing Helena and I could sense her beginning to pull away from me. No longer did I wake up to her warm impression in the sheets, the smell of coffee wafting, or the spread of used plates. I have no idea if she picked up Kira or not because no longer took her to our room. But I watched her from the window as she rolled up to the apartment in Beth's sleek Cadillac, and I hoped she was visiting me. I heard the car door slam and watched as Sarah stalked across the parking lot. The tail of her beige trench coat waved to me as she entered the building. I waited one minute, then two, and then three, but Sarah didn't come. I looked through the window again and found Kira in the backseat of the car, looking up but not at me. It was then that I knew Sarah was not coming back to me and, as I later found out, that she would not come back again. I was confirmed by Helena's hunched presence beside Sarah, cupping a bowl of steaming soup in her hands. Behind her, Sarah held a bundle of blankets (I can only assume they are her remaining belongings) and guided Helena to the car. She moved to the trunk of the car and waited there expectantly. When Sarah opened the passenger door for her, she only stared. Sarah reached out, grasped Helena's arm, and half-guided half-dragged Helena to the passenger seat. By the time Helena was seated, Sarah's hand had slid down to Helena's hand and she held it for a moment before closing the door with a gentle _click_. Somehow I knew this wasn't an action caused by fear, or weakness, like before. Perhaps it was the strength in Sarah's movements as she walked back to the driver's seat. The expression on her face was calm and set, but severe. They were leaving together and everyone else would follow, there was no question about it.

There was a crunch of tire against gravel, and then a beam of yellow as the car turned around. As the Cadillac drove further into the horizon, I watched the red gleam of her rear lights dim and the car shrink small until it was no more than a black dot in the gray scale of the highway. I watched until I could see no more and I waited for them to return without hope of seeing it, and that was the last time I saw Sarah Manning.


End file.
